


Honeymoon Kids

by CrystallizedHoney



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempted Murder, Depression, Drug Use, Kleptomania, M/M, Overdosing, Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedHoney/pseuds/CrystallizedHoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some attend college for the experiences, some attend college for the degree. Some graduate, some make it halfway through, and some don't make it out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Born to Lose

The halls of the boys’ dormitory are always alive with noise. From throbbing basslines pulsing through the too-thin walls to cackling laughter, to stampeding footsteps pounding up and down the stairs and slamming doors closing hard enough to send trembles through the floor. Boys, and men alike, travel to and fro, sometimes stopping to engage in fruitless conversation with neighboring residents in volumes unnecessary for the short distance between them.

Ivan does not like it. He does not like _any_ of it. It is too much. Whether in the middle of the night or midway through the afternoon, all the commotion seems strangely out of place. The dissimilarities are too plentiful to pretend. _He_ feels out of his element in the very place he is meant to call home.

As he jams his key into the lock on the door to his small room, he supposes that is the exact reason why he is more often seen vacating the building than occupying it. He supposes that is the very reason why whenever he happens to be spotted momentarily occupying the building, those who can be considered acquaintances will take the opportunity to bombard him with gossip or any other information he genuinely does not care about. _Anything_ to get him talking.

Fruitless conversation, indeed.

Namely from Gilbert, the meddling, loudmouthed, overly rambunctious man-child, who rooms across the hall and three doors to the left. Ivan has to force down the urge to heave out a sigh of exasperation at the very sight of the man hurriedly approaching him. A dozen excuses to hold himself exempt from chatting at the moment race through his mind, but he never gets the chance to use a single one. From the moment they are within hearing-distance of one another, Gilbert is prattling on and on without so much as a greeting first.

“Fucking roommate is having one of his episodes again,” the man says, facial expression contorted into some sort of grimace, though the frequent darting of his eyes towards his room betrays him and shows concern. “I swear I can’t deal with this shit anymore. I can’t wait until next semester so I can switch rooms. I can’t wait to get out of here—period. Know what I mean?”

Ivan, although weary of meandering his way into others’ business, cannot help but question Gilbert's thinking under these circumstances. “What does one of his ‘episodes’ look like?”

The other appears to be absorbed in thought before answering. Ivan can tell by the way his shoulders lift and fall in a brief shrug, in spite of his opening mouth. Almost as if he is weighing the consequences of revealing too much and, perhaps, revealing too little. It is clear the cogs in his brain are turning against each other much too fast to perfectly match both thought and action.

“Usually just a lot of crying,” he pauses, carefully constructing his next sentences. “A lot of agitation and restlessness. He’ll start throwing shit and make a general mess of everything for seemingly no reason. Tore my fucking posters off the wall one day.”

Really, Ivan does not know much about psychology. It seems to be years ago that he took his General Education courses, which included an _Introduction to Psychology_ class that he attended rather reluctantly. Nonetheless, the symptoms-- _could they even be called that?_ \--seem worthy of keeping an eye on the person. Although, judging by the leather jacket draped over his shoulders, Gilbert is prepared to head out, much like Ivan is.

“And you are going out right now?”

Gilbert’s eyebrows shoot up towards his forehead, an action that can easily be mistaken for surprise if not for the blank face that accompanies it. “Were you even paying attention?”

The answer is yes, not that it really matters.

Not at all interested in entertaining weak sarcasms and unwarranted attitudes, Ivan finally returns to the task at hand. He twists the lock into place before tearing the key from the brass knob and placing it in the pocket of his coat. He does not bother to give Gilbert any farewells when he turns away, whether by mere expression or words, and, instead, makes his way down the hall towards the elevator.

As if invited to tag along, Gilbert falls into step beside him, running off at the mouth all the while. “There's no way I’m staying in that room with him like that. It’s just weird. What am I supposed to do? Just sit there and try and pretend that shit’s normal. No chance in hell, dude. Fuck that. He can…”

His useless chatter begins to fade into nothingness while Ivan finds himself contemplating the steps he would take if cornered in the same situation as they wait, the down button glowing a mellow blue to signify it has been pressed.

“I think you should check on him.”

Ivan is unsure whether his suggestion stems from his desire to be rid of Gilbert or the feeling of wariness that arises with the idea of someone's roommate having an "episode" without another to supervise their actions.

“Chill,” Gilbert sighs, tossing his arm around Ivan's back to hook uncomfortably around his neck. “He’ll be completely fine. It’s not like he cuts himself or anything. He just gets stressed. It’s college. _Everyone’s_ fucking crazy.”

But _something is off_. A feeling of dread drops onto his shoulders atop the emotional distress caused by that of the many other burdens he already carries and he begins to feel uneasy as the elevator doors slowly slide closed. When the lift drops into its steady descent downwards, Ivan attempts to ignore the tight constricting in his chest.

* * *

Two hours later, when he arrives back at the dormitory (a lot earlier than usual), he is surprised to see an ambulance parked in outside the building. _Well_ , he is mildly surprised and, then again, after a little thinking, not surprised in the least. Sickness is common. Typically, not to this degree, but it is not unheard of. Ivan has witnessed a handful of ambulances pulling away from campus on different occasions.

 _Most likely alcohol poisoning—again_ , he thinks.

Even as he scans his identification card and is swiftly permitted entrance to the building, even as he shuffles through the lobby filled with muttering and whispering peers, their eyes wide with worry. Even as he takes the stairs with the thought of avoiding the wait for the elevator. Even as he pushes the door open to the north wing of the fifth floor and is met with more than a dozen bodies lingering in their doorways, he still does not think it is anything more than alcohol poisoning.

When he reaches his door, he peers down the hallway out of habit, a heaviness carefully snowballing itself within his chest when he spots two paramedics making their way into a room not too far away. Ivan squints to catch sight of the number posted to the left of it, counts the distance away from his own.

The room across the hall and three doors to the left, Gilbert’s room. Gilbert and his roommate.

_Fucking roommate is having one of his episodes again._

_Chill. It’s not like he cuts himself or anything._

Ivan feels sick. The steadily growing wad of anticipation and guilt finally sinks into the pit of his stomach in a fit of oncoming nausea.

“Most likely just alcohol poisoning,” he whispers to himself before stepping over the threshold to his room. When the door closes silently behind him, it all seems surreal.

Later, after the flashing lights of the ambulance can no longer be seen flickering across the walls and ceiling of his bedroom, Ivan continues to think. Continues to wonder and ponder the events that may have occurred during the two hours he spent studying in the campus library.

That night, the boys’ dormitory is as quiet as the darkness that looms outside its residents’ windows. There is no excited chatter, no jovial laughter and pounding footsteps up and down the halls. It is silent, however thin the walls are. Ivan hears nothing beyond that of his own breathing as he lays in bed, plagued with his own thoughts. He wonders if this is what college is all about.


	2. (It Never Felt That Right to Me)

By morning, normalcy returns in full force. The silence of the night before has evaporated, driven away by the heat of eagerly shared conversation and the tired groans of students dragging themselves out of bed to the song of chirping birds.

 _The quiet_ …

Just as swiftly as it arrives, it departs.

Behind it lies the remnants of a different silence. Ivan knows because, for once, he listens intently. Away his peers chatter, excited and carefree. Questions and answers alike stay sealed beneath stiff smiles and uselessly casual small-talk. No one sheds light on the events of yesterday’s incident.

In a way, he becomes possessed by curiosity. Haunted by possibility and tormented by being left unknowing. He _needs_ to know.

Mere hours ago, an ambulance had been called (most likely brought upon by frantic fingers and jumbled, incoherent speech), and someone had been wheeled away on a gurney (whether breathing or still, he does not know) to the hospital. For once, the daily bustle of the dormitory had slowed.

Yet, it is like the memory has been wiped from everyone’s memories.

Not a single soul speaks of what happened. He wonders how they are able to laugh and enjoy themselves when someone had possibly died hours ago. Mere hours ago.

 _It’s college._ Everyone’s _fucking crazy._

(It isn’t until he hears it that he realizes that the statement certainly rings true.)

Shockingly, Gilbert’s words stick with him throughout the day. While in class, he finds himself repeating those two short sentences over and over again. He taps his pen rapidly against the table, beating a steady rhythm of agitation,  no doubt drawing the attention of several of his peers with his noisy distraction. However, he remains unaware, much too engrossed in _wondering._

_Did no one care?_

Classes whirl by in minute flashes of scattered thoughts. Lectures float leisurely through one ear and out the other, his head preoccupied with other agendas.

_What happened?_

When he arrives back at the dorms, he experiences a momentary lapse in judgment in which he genuinely considers weaseling his way into Gilbert’s room to sate his curiosity. Past observation tells him that the door is never locked; the man had said something about never being able to locate his keys. It would be so easy. It could be fast.

What stops him is the glimpse of an image he gets when he passes by his own room.

There, on the whiteboard attached to his door, in sloppily scribbled handwriting, is an unfamiliar address followed by a short message that reads: _a little party never killed nobody. —G_. Three balloons are drawn in the corner, a smiley face in the center of the second one. The poorly written message lasts all of three seconds before Ivan erases it, not bothering to commit the address to memory.

Statistics tell an entirely different story.

Furthermore, Gilbert is nothing but trouble...

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” an annoyingly familiar voice calls out, startling him.

...Trouble that has the tendency of showing up at the most inopportune times.

“Into my room,” Ivan answers coolly, as if he has not been considering sneaking into Gilbert's room.

“Uh-uh, buddy," Gilbert says. "Mandatory floor meeting. Arthur's busting balls tonight.”

* * *

Slowly, and with much complaint, people begin to file into a tiny room, mindlessly falling into the seats farthest away from the front. Two men wait patiently at the head of the room. One, the male holding a pointer stick, wears stuffy clothing that reminds Ivan of the attire his Literature professor is partial to. The other is dressed casually, clutching a clipboard to his chest with a welcoming smile.

Immediately, before everyone is seated, the man, with a scowl that appears to be permanently plastered to his face, the Unfriendly Professor, dives into a lecture of disappointment. “This is the _third_ seminar Matthew and I have had to facilitate this semester--alone. Which makes us not only the _worst_ floor in this dormitory, but the _worst_ dormitory hall on the _entire_ campus.”

This statement causes a sudden uproar of cheering. There is suddenly a chorus of overly excited applause, accompanied by feet stomping into the carpeted floor. Dozens of people stand and clap proudly, others give each other slaps on the back, laughing heartily.

It is an odd celebration so Ivan stays seated, uncertain of the reason for their jolliness. His English must be getting rusty because he does not remember “ _worst_ ” being a word of positive nature. He makes a mental note to work on refreshing his English vocabulary after the meeting.

“As always, we will start with reminding you all of what we already have tacked under our belts. Matthew, if you would.”

“Uh,” Matthew murmurs, flipping through the thick bundle of pages attached to his clipboard. “Firstly, there has been an appalling amount of vandalism going on. So whoever has been defacing the building with poorly detailed sketches of male genitalia, please stop. While mildly amusing, we’re all adults here…”

The list goes on and on for what seems to be a lifetime, in spite of it really being only twenty-three minutes. Ivan knows because he spends the majority of that time closely watching the hands twirling slowly ‘round the clock. Matthew’s speech recounts each incident that has been reported within the building with Arthur providing threatening and degrading commentary between sentences.

Their little presentation puts a handful of their peers to sleep. Admittedly, Ivan, too, comes dangerously close to drifting off, lured into sleepiness by the softness of Matthew’s voice. Beside him, Gilbert, who is less tactful, lays with his head hanging off the back of his chair, the steel back digging harshly into his neck. His mouth is open wide, emitting the occasional snore.

Either neither of the facilitators notices the increasingly drowsy behavior of their audience, or they are purposely ignoring it in favor of saving time.

“Three people have had alcohol poisoning and one person has overdosed, which may be a decrease when compared with our stats from last year, but we shouldn't be having any of these incidents at all. Which leads us to why we have called this meeting in the first place. Arthur...” Matthew finishes, urging the man beside him forward.

“Since we’ve all been here several times before, I’m sure everyone has already grown accustomed to our favorite seminar…”

From the back corners of the room comes a rumbling of violent pounding against the table; an impromptu drum roll of sorts, though it more closely resembles thunder traversing through darkened clouds when enclosed in such a small space. It thrums in his ears and pumps through his heart until even he begins to feel anticipation.

Matthew reaches over to turn back the first page on the flip-chart beside him. Printed in large, bold text are the words: _Drug And/Or Alcohol Abuse_.

Instantly, a collective groan sounds from all directions, loud enough to rouse anyone sleeping.

“I know, I know,” Arthur replies sympathetically, though his stony expression betrays the falsified tone of his voice. “But if _someone_ learned a little moderation, we all wouldn’t be here.”

Ivan takes notice that Arthur pointedly stares at Gilbert, green eyes coldly narrowed.

“Don’t look at me,” protests Gilbert with a childish huff, crossing his arms and slinking down in his seat. “It wasn’t me this time.”

“Yes, but you are responsible for the well-being of your roommate. In fact, you _all_ are. If you’re rooming in a single, consider yourself lucky.”

Coming to Gilbert’s defense, someone calls out, “That wasn’t in the Housing Contract.”

Although it does not matter, Ivan can attest to that. There is no section that states where accountability lies during situations that involve substance or alcohol abuse. Furthermore, without a roommate, Ivan is grouped into the category of the lucky few without the burden of a roommate.

“Yeah!” yells another. “I ain’t sign up to be nobody’s keeper!”

“I want a refund!”

“Yeah!” several others shout in agreement.

Soon, everyone is up in arms about it. An entire floor of people attempting to speak at once. Voices raise to their maximum volume in order to be heard. The louder the ruckus becomes, the redder Arthur’s face steadily colors, the closer his eyebrows draw together. Just as he is inches from cherry territory, he slams the wooden stick in his hand against the podium hard enough to snap it in two.

“Listen and belt up, you insolent fools! I don’t give a bloody fuck what you fuckers--”

Matthew—not-so-subtly—jabs his elbow into Arthur’s ribs, causing the man to yelp in discomfort. Nevertheless, the action is efficient in distracting the belligerent Residential Adviser from continuing his anger-fueled rant.

Gradually, the noise dies down following Arthur’s unrestrained outburst, simmering to the occasional snicker. Matthew uses the opportunity to take over.

“It’s not about it being a rule that you have to do so, it’s about being a decent human being. College is a very stressful time for everyone and it’s a lot easier when you have someone to bond with.”

That sends the group in the back corners into a fit of muffled laughter.

Plagued with giggles, someone immaturely sings out, “Gay!”

“Oh, haha,” Arthur drawls sarcastically. “Just laugh it up. These are my last days here. Pretty soon, one of you will be standing here in my place giving the same shitty speeches as Matthew and I.”

A lot louder than intended, Gilbert whispers, “But at least we won’t have a stick up our ass.”

“Oh, lucky you! Let’s all thank Gilbert because he just earned all of you the full presentation on Substance Abuse.”

“What!” exclaims Gilbert, throwing his arms up in disbelief. Then, “Ow!” After a miffed acquaintance punishes him with a slap to the back of the head.

“Are you trying for Alcohol Abuse as well?” asks Arthur.

Fortunately, Gilbert quickly learns when to keep his mouth closed. When no response is given, Arthur hits two switches and the lights flicker out. Very, very slowly, a plain, white screen draws downward from the ceiling.

“I thought so. Now settle in. It’s going to be a long night.”

The projector quietly whirs as it begins to boot up, flooding the screen with the image of an unsettling bland PowerPoint presentation. Already the black text is beginning to bleed blurry across its white background.

And, true to Arthur’s word, a long night it is. Two hours of monotone slide-reading and forced audience participation, to be exact. It is so painfully boring that Ivan vows never to attend another meeting after this. The moment it draws to a close and the lights are turned back on, he feels about as happy as a man being released from prison after a twenty-year sentence.

“And, before we dismiss this session, if I find one more of you dumb fuckers-- Excuse me!” Arthur hurriedly corrects himself when thrown a cold glare from Matthew. “Incompetent fools selling Ritalin, Adderall, ecstasy, weed, or any other drugs, in my damn halls again, I will not hesitate to contact the counselor.”

When no one seems particularly dismayed by Arthur’s threat, Matthew steps in and quickly adds, “She’s very adamant about pushing students to pursue rehabilitation this year and is eager to get the names of repeat offenders—which we have.”

Ivan, by now, is on the edge of his seat, prepared to spring up the moment the meeting is called to an end.

“One more thing: tell all your friends that _mandatory_ does not mean _optional_. Next time, rest assured that I will send someone out to hunt them down,” threatens Arthur as he focuses his attention on shutting down his computer. “Dismissed.”

Everyone scrambles to leave the room at once, bumping shoulders in the small doorway in their haste to exit. Thankfully, Ivan is among the first few to make it out into the halls once more, avoiding the need to shove and push others. It is a joyous occasion. Although, the happiness that washes over him does not last for long.

“Hey, Ivan!”

This is why he stays in his room. Wherever he goes, trouble is sure to follow.

He pretends not to hear.

“Hey!" Gilbert yells, rushing to his side to skirt into his vision and halt his pursuit forward. "Come chill with us. I know you saw the message I left you because it was erased. My friend, Al, scored some good shit. We’re celebrating him coming back.”

That catches his attention.

“Coming back from what?” he inquires, mildly interested.

“That's not my information to disclose. Just... come find out.”

“No, thank you. I have a lot of studying to do.”

Ivan makes a move to meander around the other, but Gilbert is quicker and jumps to meet Ivan at every turn.

“Dude, you're so fucking boring. Hasn’t anyone ever told you?”

When Ivan no longer attempts to sneak around him, again, Gilbert throws his arm around Ivan’s shoulders, ignoring the uncomfortable way it forces Ivan to duck his head. Ivan later comes to realize that this is the man’s way of wrangling him out of an escape route.

"Told me what?"

“If you’re going to make any mistakes in life, make ‘em while you’re in college.”

There is a lot wrong with that statement, but Ivan willingly sets aside his own rational thinking because, as he has learned, Gilbert is not the type of person to take _no_ for an answer. Gilbert is aggravatingly stubborn and determined at all the wrong times. Extremely persistent for the littlest of reasons.  
  
At the very least, it's an opportunity to get answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait. I really wanted to introduce Alfred into this story during the second chapter, but it just wasn't happening. I tried several different ideas and... no dice. So this is a bit of a "filler." Gives a little information and is mostly just humor. Sorry. I'm not too happy with myself either. Just try to enjoy.
> 
> Chapter Three will definitely return to the melancholy tone, Ivan and Alfred will finally meet and there's going to be a lot of drugs. Also, Ivan's going to get a lot weirder. Thinking this story might actually turn into a mystery. Notice the changes to the tags.


End file.
